What I Pulled Back In...

....further reflections on my two moms My Two Moms

This was originally published 5.10.15. Mother's Day five years ago.

I have a complicated family back story.  Maybe everyone does?  I used to say there was no simple question that could be asked about my family.  For many years it went like this when getting to know new friends.  So where's your dad?  "In Alabama but I don't know him"  (I do now) How many siblings do you have?  "Three, but one is since deceased, and I don't know the other two"  Then that number turned to four, and twenty years later it turned to six.  I still have not met any of my brothers or sisters, two sisters deceased now, with solemn promises from both mother and father  that there were no more surprise siblings waiting in the wings. I have come to know the faces and lives of the remaining four and am gleaning bits of their spirits and hearts via Facebook.  A huge later in life gift for this only child. 

Most complicated for me has been sorting out the relationship between the two women who shaped my early years.  My mother's mental illness did not leave room for much parenting and nurturing that a daughter needs.  It did however allow room for her to share her way-before-her-time ideas, philosophies, social justice issues, and lots of folk music.  These aspects of herself have carried me in good stead.  The impact of her narcissism has mostly been eradicated and the damage done out of actions stemming from an imbalanced mind has also been healed by years of therapy and a sheer, willful, determination to break the patterns of the mothers who came before me.

Mothers.  Plural.  Not because of gay marriage but because I had a grandmother who never got to be a grandmother.  She was not able to spoil me, nurture me, or have fun with me both because it was not her nature (being raised by stern Victorian era parents) and also because my mother's mental illness passed the baton of raising a child to my grandmother. I walked a fine line as I got older between my mother and uncle being my peers and being my elders, like some much later, accidental sibling.  My grandmother had lived alone for many years.  She was a private woman, a woman who loved her own daughter very much and shielded her from the prying eyes of a small town.  Likewise, my biracial heritage and talks of my father and my racial identity were not permitted.  We lived a life that was fear-based, secretive, and cloistered in many ways. 

The three of us in same house enmeshed in that environment with no buffers for the psychological space between us. 

A series of events outside of my control, outside of my preferences, and most certainly, in hindsight (blessed, grace-filled hindsight), predetermined, shattered that space - emotionally and physically.  They propelled me into the space I was meant to inhabit and away from the legacy of Frances and Margaret.  But that kind of intervention always enacts a price, a sacrifice, and pain that must be let go in order to thrive and avoid passing it to the next generation.

In my case, the selling of my childhood home, moving across the country to Seattle (breaking the physical ties to my family) and my mother's death were the milestones.  My childhood home which had been served up to me for sixteen years as my legacy and my responsibility to keep in the family was, seemingly, overnight, sold and I, a Sophomore in college had Thanksgiving break to come and quickly move whatever I wanted of my own things out of a house that I would never call my own again.  There was no time to think or to grieve.  Only time to react.  Thankfully, in that moment, my dear friend and at the time, husband, grabbed the doorknob off my bedroom door, I still have it.  It is mostly all that remains of a life as a fourth and final generation to live at 510 Market street.  The things that I had been told would be mine someday were split, as they should have been, between my mother and her brother, my dear Uncle Jim.  My mother sold most of hers as time went on and she lived more and more on the margins. 

Secondly, in what could only be described as an act of divine intervention, I moved to Seattle from Huntington, West Virginia where I had been living for almost ten years after I left my hometown of Spencer.  Dear ones, it would take at least one more blog entry and a glass of wine to adequately share the story, so we'll save it for another day.  It suffices to say it was the beginning of my living the life I was born to live and severing ties from a family legacy that did not serve me and was not mine to carry.  I began to blossom as Odetta when I moved to Seattle, and I never stopped. 

Finally, my mother's death six years ago was the defining moment when I knew I was on my own.  My marriage was suffering, my second husband in his own pain was unable to be supportive, could not help me fly home to see my mother. My Uncle who was losing a sister could only do what he could do.  My mother passed away without me ever seeing her or being able to attend her funeral. (years later my father passed in a similar way, with no opportunity for me to observe with family. I have come to understand that this is how it's meant to be, that it was truly for the best) When my dear friends in Seattle pulled their frequent flyer miles so I could go back "home" and visit my mother's grave,  I arrived to find her home cleared out of most of her possessions.  I had been able to contact my mother's friends and ask them to go to her home and get a few things that I could think of, they in their love for both of us had the presence to grab some other items dear to my mother, but the rest was sold and given away to others who loved her and had been closer to her in the last days of her life.  This, dear ones is part of the price you pay when you live in a small town and you choose to leave.  No one will wait for you to come...they need to get on with their own lives."Growinguup, I heard this message often,  in regard to folks who left: "You SHOULD have stayed if you wanted to be included."

What's left?  What's left of a sixteen years of life with two women who raised me. I was surprised by what was left.  By what I pulled back in when the grief began to subside and I accepted the gaping hole of being one of the last ones remaining from those sixteen years.  Among the priceless intangibles I count a love and passion for reading, music, learning, education, nature, and a commitment to servant leadership, modeled mostly by my Uncle Jim but in less obvious ways by my grandmother. 

The tangibles have some slowly and often without conscious effort.  I recently found an exquisite angel wind chime at Pier One with gold bells and beads.  It is too beautiful to put outside and so it hangs in my living room window, playing it's music when the cat or a daring child bats at it.  Just yesterday, something reminded me that it looks very much like some chimes my mother had from her days living in California, especially the bells and thus inspired this writing.   I have little china cups, Havilland, which resemble the china in my grandmother's cabinet and precious tiny dessert cups.  I spent hours looking at those things as a child sometimes daring to touch them or take them out, knowing I would get in trouble if caught.  When I purchased them 15 years ago the woman selling them said in wonder "People your age don't usually want these kinds of things".  They do if they're trying to bring something back that they loved.  I found a sweet miniature trunk in an antique store, that resembled my mother's old steamer trunk which I loved.  On it someone had appliqued images of little girls taken straight out of book about birds that my grandmother had purchased for me.  It sits now in my writing nook. 

Most precious to me though is my sweet doorknob and a set of books from my Grandmother's library.  The living room in our old house was spacious.  It housed my Grandmother's stunning Steinway grand piano, and an impressive library.  The bookshelves themselves were grand, practically to the ceiling.  In that awful selling of my mother's things, the purchase was made of Louisa May Alcott's  Little Women series, copyright 1886!  Through the magic of Facebook the purchaser contacted me and graciously offered to send me the set.  Dear ones, you cannot know what it meant to have something so beloved and intimate back in my possession.  Each book bears both the signature of my grandmother and my mother, as it was our habit to write our names in all our books.  I first read "Little Women" from that same set.   It fills my heart with peace to have it in my own home now. 

The house built my great-grandfather on 510 Market street has long since been torn down. Raising my two children, I have thrown a lot out, but I also kept a great deal.  My children love to read, they love music and both possess skills in that area.  Both boys will look out the window and notice something beautiful like Mount Rainier, or a grand tree because they have heard me comment on similar outdoor beauty, just as I heard my Grandmother, my mother, and my Uncle do.  They are wicked and sharply intelligent, like their Granny Leith. There are things cannot be taken away from us dear ones. Once we are able to pull focus,  we can see that which is meant to be ours.  Losses, are painful. They are also opportunities to break free from that which was not meant to be our path, to unburden ourselves from the legacies of others and claim our own.

More most surely and thankfully will be revealed...



With Love to Mousey

This is a story about a cat, atonement, loss, and grief.  Like all good stories though, it doesn't start out that way.  It begins with  a story about two friends who loved each other dearly and in that love decided it was a good idea to get married.  It turned out they were wrong, and in their error became quite dysfunctional and hurtful to themselves, each other and the world.  In their lost ways, they became people who would go to the animal shelter and bring home cats and dogs they couldn't care for because they were in pain and couldn't bear to see the pain of another creature.  In the end, they divorced, took the cats they could manage and in an act of desperation that horrified them both returned three of the cats they had adopted to the very shelter from which they had adopted them. 
The painful end.

But not so much.  The male in that story went on to provide loving, indulgent, and secure homes for some dear feline companions until he passed away.   The female made a promise to never, ever allow anything remotely close to that circumstance in her life again.  And so went many years without having a pet despite her sincere affection for animals.  The two reconnected as years passed and friendship was still there.  The female, who you may have guessed by now was me, loved teasing her dear friend about how he sacrificed sweaters as blankets for his dear cat friends.  And he would say "ah, it's fine!  It came from Goodwill you know!".  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Somewhere in between all that healing I was sitting in my sweet little apartment in Ballard, you know, the one that absolutely allowed no pets. I had ended up living in Seattle from West Virginia and that dear ones is a story that requires a good Manhattan and much more space than a blog allows.  It was hot and I was on the top floor, one of the hottest Julys on record.  I had my windows open for relief when I thought I smelled cigarette smoke, since we were in a no-smoke building I looked out my window down to the courtyard of our building.  No smoke, no people in sight anywhere.  But, there was a cat.  So of course I spoke to it.  I always speak to cats, it might be someone I know.  She spoke back in a pitiful mew and kept looking up at me.  Yes, of course I went down to visit with her.  How did I know it was a girl?  Because as soon as I approached her I saw that she was very close to giving birth. 

The rest of the story is not very surprising or mysterious.  I took her in, risking my placement at my apartment.  It was just until the kittens came and then they'd go.  I was on a mission.  She had come to me, I was sure, as a means of atonement for awful deed I had participated in.  I was going to do right by Cleo and Bailey and Tuck.  I partnered with a local agency to become the mama's foster home until the kittens were born.  Through the agency and my own efforts three kittens were adopted out to excellent, loving homes.   Zoe, a Siamese, Nick a tuxedo, and Simon a yellow tabby.  Mama, a calico manx with only fuzz for a tail was young and clearly had many suitors!  That left one little puny guy.  He had come last, twelve hours later,  I would say later in affectionate jest that he lost oxygen during that time to explain some of his more curious behaviors.  Yes, the little white kitten with a poofy pom-pom tail stayed with me as did Mama, who I named Peachy.  Mousey, who got his name because as a tiny kitten he looked exactly like the little white cartoon mouse in Loony Tunes whose ears were bigger than his body.  He later revealed that he too was part Siamese as his peach colored points came in.  It was a classic bait and switch meant to be, I would never have kept him if I had known he was part Siamese, but he was mine now and that meant for better or worse.

It was mostly with Mousey for better.  He, to date, is my longest relationship since I moved to Seattle.  Seventeen and a half years.   He was with me through every pivotal life transition that occurred.  A marriage, a move, two babies coming home,  another divorce, a move, a blending of a new family, another move...he was boss.  He moved along mostly seamlessly through all the days of my life.  Peachy was not so flexible.  When my firstborn came home some weird hormonal collision occurred between the two of us.  We couldn't stand each other and she certainly couldn't stand The Boy.  She was relocated quickly by a family friend to a new home.

Mousey was beautiful, a large cream colored Siamese with blue eyes and apricot colored points.  He always caught the eye.  I never let him outside because I was afraid he'd get scooped up and taken by someone.  Like most Manx he was very social, his poofy tail would twitch in greeting and he was more doglike in wanting to be where we were, close by.  He was not a good cat for a cat owner who didn't care for dogs, but I was atoning so we learned to live with each other.  He had more oral hang-ups than I'd ever known possible in a cat.  Chiefly, licking the bathtub (and then laying down in it)  and licking plastic bags so loudly and devotedly that the sound of it would wake me up in the middle of the night. I can tell you for sure that it will be years before I lay a plastic bag down on the floor where a cat could get to it.

Last November, our old dear clown took a nose dive and we prepared to say good-bye. But our resilient fellow bounced back and we celebrated the extra time knowing it would be short lived.  But as you know dear ones, that knowledge does not prepare you for the time when loss is imminent.  Yesterday, at four o'clock in the afternoon, on our bathroom floor our sweet old man took two last deep breathes and went on to his next gig. It was fast and unexpected.  The picture I used for the article was taken just four days ago, he was alert and happy. Yesterday I held him like a baby up to the computer screen so that The Girl could say her good-byes via Skype.  He was weak and limp, a shell of my fellow. He opened his eyes when he heard her voice, I think he was waiting to hear from her because he had started having seizures that morning.  I whispered to him over and over that he could go, that it was okay now.  But he needed to see The Girl with whom he had developed a special bond.  I laid him back down in the floor and as I talked with my daughter and we laughed I heard those two last labored breathes and realized with gratitude and great relief that we were not going to the cold vet clinic later for euthanasia.  Mousey died in the bathroom, which he loved, hearing the laughter of family and those who loved him most.  I could not have planned a better passing for him.

Seventeen years of your presence in my life dear friend, my children have not known a life without you in it.  I know our grief will subside in the days to come, but right now that seems not possible.  Thank you sweet soul for all you gave us, for allowing me stop beating myself up for a thing that I did in a toxic state of living, for being your sweet, goofy, neurotic self.  I have never known the joy and the pain of caring for and living with another creature from birth to death.  It was wonderful and now excruciating.  I remain in a grateful debt to you for all you allowed me to do and become, so much grace we gave one another.  You will always, always be loved and absolutely never forgotten. 

One More Cup of Coffee Before You Go....

Normally my writings here are about food, coupled with memory, specifically about my hometown and childhood home in Spencer, West Virginia.  So let me say that I was never so grateful as I was yesterday that I had put a chicken in to roast before I sat down to see why my Facebook inbox was so full of messages...

The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are. 

       - Joseph Campbell

If we are to accept Mr. Campbell's quote as true (and why wouldn't we?) then Michael Frederick Titus was one of the most privileged people I have ever had the honor of knowing.  While he lived simply, gently, and with few personal belongings, I never knew him once to falter in living an authentic life.  Beloved son, brother, uncle - cherished and valued friend - writer, creator, jokester, champion of the underdog, and defender of reasonable intellect...and so much more.  The sudden and much too early loss of this great gift of being has shaken all who knew and loved him to the core. 

I became aware of Michael one summer waiting tables between college at a restaurant we both loved, Aldos Out to Lunch.  He was ten years older than I was, so I only knew him as one of many town people in our small city of Spencer, WV.   A mutual friend was throwing a festive event far in the woods and I had no car, so Michael offered to drive me there.  On the way we chatted non-stop about books, writing, the arts, and various social injustices that we found highly offensive.  Somewhere between that conversation and the party's end, we fell in love.  Our tumultuous five year relationship, which included a marriage and a divorce, was built on those wonderful things we talked about as friends but also on a great deal of personal pain that we had not come to terms with as individuals.  The latter, and how we dealt with it caused the demise of the relationship and most painfully a friendship destroyed, or so I thought.

I have my second husband to thank for the friendship revived, in part at least.  He is a cradle Catholic and was uncomfortable getting married until I had annulled my marriage with Michael.  It was difficult reaching out to him with a request that I didn't fully buy into, but wanted to fulfill, for my fiancée.  Dear ones, I was so nervous, but I found Michael as I had remembered him originally...charming, gracious, accepting, humorous, and kind.  We laughed a the ludicrousness of annulling the marriage and I reveled in the return of a dear friend.  A few years later, when my second marriage took a bad turn, it was that dear friend who was there for me.  Between mothering two children and seeing a second marriage crumble, my self-esteem had taken a hit.  There are very few people who I would allow to see me so vulnerable at the time, but Michael was one of them.  I knew I could trust him to be both honest and kind.  At the point I had come to in my second marriage, I wasn't even sure that I was a person that could be loved, that was lovable.  Michael was right there, assuring me that we had shared in the responsibility for our marriage and that I indeed was lovable and worthy of love.  There are not many ex-wives who can boast of such dedication and friendship when it comes to the their ex-spouse, but anyone who knew him would not be surprised to hear this about Michael.


And so it goes in the last twenty-four hours as I have dried my endless tears, railed at my dear friend for leaving so soon...in between my chastising the heavens I have gone through many Michael files in my brain and been warmed by the volumes of good memories.  I mentioned before that we were both in painful places when we met and married.  Soothing those wounds for one another was what first connected us.  Bear with me as I tell you briefly about an episode of  "The Jefftersons"...trust me.

Because I was so full of pain, and not dealing with it at all, any little thing could be a trigger for me for the sadness and angst to pour out.  One day Michael and I were watching said television show together.  In the episode Louise goes back to her old building where she grew up to say good-bye.  When she leaves, she takes the doorknob off the front door with her as a keepsake.
Dear ones, I was leveled by this episode.  BAWLING.  Michael was beside himself attempting to comfort me. You see I was facing the loss of our family home myself.  The home on 510 Market street, built by my great-grandfather.  I was the third generation of my family to be raised there.  It had never occurred to me that I would not raise my own children there.  My grandmother's death coupled with my mother's recurring mental illness made it impossible for the home to be kept.  It was out of my hands, I had no say or control, and there was no reason why I would.  But the loss was devastating to me.

Over Thanksgiving break Michael and I took a U-Haul up to Spencer (he had moved to Huntington to attend college as well) and moved as much as we could take in one trip, anything I could get to hold on to my beloved home and the many memories that had been made there.  It was stressful and chaotic.  My mother had been living a bit in the margins, and the house was a mess.  I was on auto-pilot, filled with rage, grief and denial.  

I'm not sure when he gave it to me, but somewhere after the move and maybe when we got back to Huntington, Michael, dear sweet, kind Michael handed me a precious gift.  He had removed the door knob from my bedroom door as a keepsake for me, just like in the show.  This is the kind of thoughtful, loving person he was, that he would think to do something like that for me.

Yesterday I searched in a panic for photos, notes, keepsakes, something from Michael.  I had left so much behind when I moved to Seattle. I lost family and I lost possessions. I have almost nothing from the home I grew up in and it seemed nothing from those years that we shared, nothing tangible.  I was kicking myself.  Then, oh sweet baby Jesus, then I remembered.  I still had my doorknob...and I knew exactly where it was.  It sits with me now as I write this tribute to him.  A lasting memory not only from my childhood home which I cherished and miss to this day, but also from a friend whose absence will never, never be filled by another.  MFT you were one of a kind my precious sweet friend, one of a handful of people who actually got me...thank you for all that you gave me and others we have been so blessed to know you.  I chose the Campbell quote not only because of your affection for him but also because your privilege was also ours...love and peace to you. 

The South Meets the South Seas...Out West. .

I'm sitting down to write this while experimenting with a new beverage option,  by Celestial Seasonings.  I was looking for black tea on Sunday at PCC,  and questioned the woman next to me who I thought was purchasing regular old black tea (sometimes it's hard to tell at PCC, know what I mean?) only to find out she was purchasing COLD BREW black ice tea.  Dear ones my jaw hit the floor. I was skeptical.  Wouldn't cold brew ice tea be an oxymoron?  A unicorn even? How could it exist?  I mentioned this in passing yesterday while out with The Mamas and Mama Katie said "I thought all ice tea was cold brew".  I looked at her with an "oh no you didn't..." expression and I'm pretty sure I reverted to some Southern dialect while shaking and my head and saying "Girl, I'm from the South.  We take brewing our ice tea seriously". She's not from the South and if you're not either, let me lay it out for you.  Ice tea is THE regional drink for Southerners.  I don't even know how many ways there are to make it, but I know that even on the hottest days you BOIL the water (unless it's sun tea) and you add tons of sugar, because it's the South.

However, living in Seattle now for close to twenty years, I've had to adjust some of my culinary expectations.  Having a family, arriving at middle age (by the grace of the Divine), and a desire to be around for that family for years to come led me to rid my diet of refined sugars, processed foods, gluten and finally most sugar all together.  While I did spend two to three years experimenting with a vegan, and then vegetarian, lifestyle, I have found that my true calling is that of a carnivore.  "I've never seen a girl that likes meat as much as you do"  said The Farmer, just recently, in fact. (after leaving Jones BBQ where I inhaled an enormous rack of ribs, the best I've ever tasted in Western Washington)  He's right and what's more, like a good Southern gal, I love pork.  I also love pigs and try to tread gently on the planet and consume food that is not traumatized so we purchase our pork humanely (nods to those who don't think that is possible, this perhaps is not the blog entry you want to be reading). I could eat pork every day.  Although it was my first pregnancy that led to my lapse in vegetarian eating, it was the consumption of bacon that reignited my love affair with pork and to this day, we have not separated.  Joy.

While traversing my life, I was blessed to meet and for some time be married to the children's father, whose family is, among other things, Hawaiian.  It was in hushed tones that he explained to them that I was a vegetarian.  At the time, I thought "No problem, I'll just research Hawaiian cuisine and then I'll convert the recipes".  If you're laughing by now, then you already know what I found out.  Hawaiian cooking, much like Southern, is largely about pork.  In both cultures, it is a less expensive meat and can be cooked in large portions to serve big families, both by birth as well as by "kin".  Community and eating and having enough for all is paramount in both cultures.  In the South we pair our spicy ribs, and pulled pork with slaw, cucumber salads, and potato salads both to make ends meet and balance the spice and richness in the pork.  Similarly, in Hawaii, well seasoned kalua pork is shredded and served up with heaping mounds of steamed white rice, bland poi, and cabbage. In both cultures, the women learned to be frugal, fill the bellies of their families and friends, and still satisfy the palates.

The latter of these is born out even today, in the life of this busy writing mama.  Like the mamas before me I want to eat well.  Contemporary women need to budget their time as well as their finances. Finally, nostalgia factors in heavily here dear ones.  Life in Seattle has been good to me I love it here.  That said, the word barbecue is thrown around more loosely than dice in Las Vegas. My first few years here people would invite me over for "barbecue".  I would arrive, practically salivating, hoping to find some vestige of home.  Much to my horror I would find hamburgers and hotdogs.   Barbecue is a verb here that carries deeply different connotations than it does in the South.  Years later I have adjusted.  I stopped going to most places that feature barbecue, although I must reiterate Jones Barbecue excels in homestyle, Southern barbecue as well as down home charm and reasonable prices.

As I mentioned, time is a huge factor in parenting any family and one with three children all who have various degrees of diagnosis is no exception. (and we won't even discuss in THIS blog how those apples don't fall far from the trees that bore them).  Although I eventually learned to make a mean mess of slow-cooked ribs, I simply don't have the time to baby them like they deserve.  So I was delighted to find this quick fix for boneless ribs which The Farmer and I have come to love. In thirty minutes you will have foolproof, tender and tasty ribs.  Follow the recipe, although I sear my ribs without the benefit of a cast iron skillet.  While understand the preference for cast iron, I promise this recipe does not suffer in its absence.    I often season mine with cumin or lately the new BBQ rub from Trader Joe's.

As much as we love these, they do require an oven and while I could eat them daily, I suspect The Farmer might protest.  So dear ones when the heat spiked here in Seattle this week, it brought a plethora of cucumbers from our hothouse and a need to cook dinner without heating up the house. Enter my hero Nom Nom Paleo!  I know, Paleo.  Don't be turned off by the trendiness of the term.  Michelle Tam regularly posts recipes on her site that are delectable and often easily executed in a busy family.  I was delighted to find that she and her family love Hawaii, its culture and its food. I couldn't pass up a chance to try her slow-cooker kalua pig. 

This recipe did not disappoint. I could not find the Hawaiian salt, so I used a mineral infused sea salt and it was fabulous.  As I understand it, the Hawaiian sea salt is infused with minerals from lava rock which brings the redness to its color, I AM curious to try it and see if there's a difference.  That said, it's hard to imagine in any way how this dish could be improved!  It was simple and practically fell apart when I went to shred it. The mouth watering traditional Hawaiian pork made the perfect companion  to my favorite Southern salad of cucumber, onion, and fresh garlic seasoned, ironically with rice vinegar.  The rice vinegar is an Asian touch, another nod to Hawaii's racially complex influences.  It is light and fresh and pairs well with a splash of lemon. I used Walla Walla onions for sweetness as I don't add sugar (by the way my West Virginia peeps could easily use the sweet Vidalia this way and while we're at it, let's not forget the wonderful Maui onion, another Hawaiian crossover).  Not using the sugar is a huge departure from my Southern upbringing, but keeps me in better mind and body.

And this, dear ones brings us around full circle.  As I sip my cold brew ice tea, I find it is delicious.  There is just enough Stevia for me to notice it, but not to be annoyed by it as I generally am by Stevia and the added lemon flavor makes it feel like a treat that exceeds anything I could get at Starbucks.  Success.  In five minutes, for very little money, I have something that satisfies my South-West palate. Yes, I'm taking liberties with the term and that's a conversation we'll meet up for another day. More will be revealed....

Chili Today, Hot Tamale...For My Spencer Family

People who knew my mother appreciated her intelligent and unique sense of humor.  Displays of affection in our home were in short supply and almost always awkward, one way we knew how to say "I love you" was to be funny.  My mother and I could quickly have each other in big belly laughs simply by repeating the same old joke, with the familiar tag line that never failed. For example,

"What's the weather in Mexico?  Chili today, hot tamale..."  Drums please.   Dear ones, remember it was the Seventies and even my politically correct mother had her limits.   It is a silly joke but we would be in tears laughing by surprising the other with it at the right time.  This joke is particularly endearing because it reminds me of my mother's time in Southern California, where I was born and her trip to Mexico which she talked about well into my adulthood.

My mother and father met in Los Angeles and my mother's cooking and love of diverse food was heavily influenced by her time in California.   She introduced me to avocados, tacos, and yes, tamales.  In the seventies, in rural West Virginia, such foods bordered on exotic.   But one culinary staple that has West coast influences was enjoyed by many in Spencer at the time, chili.

My mom was an average cook.  She made some great things and some things that will never be forgotten for their impact.  I never forgave her for the Spam she presented as dinner, a makeshift ham with cloves and pineapple on it.  She was so proud of herself and I was so horrified!  She defended that dish for years, as I could never let her forget it.  But my mom made good chili.  It wasn't unusual or unique in any way, just good comfort food.  She'd buy a loaf of french bread and we'd dip that bread into the chili and oh my it was heaven.

Although she'd make that chili every winter, it was a kick off dish to the Fall and to a special event from the childhood of most Roane Countians,  the Black Walnut Festival (BWF).   Spencer's BWF is  festive occasion in the life of the town where people come from all over the surrounding counties, as well as other states to partake of a multitude of delicacies made with Black Walnuts, exceptional bluegrass and gospel music, arts and crafts showcasing skills that are slowly and sadly going by the wayside in our technological age, as well as being a showcase for the agricultural successes of the young people in the area.  It is planned for the entire year.  I remember being in 4-H and working on my projects year round, trying to figure out what I would enter in the festival, hoping for that blue ribbon (I still have ALL my 4-H ribbons, blue and otherwise!).

We lived in town, close enough to walk to everything and close enough to run home and don a sweater or take off a sweater, sometimes it was 70 degrees, sometimes it was pouring down rain.  Or maybe we dropped off the goodies that had been won at the annual carnival as well as other festival treats hat had been purchased.  We knew it would be another year before we saw funnel cakes, boar roast, and cherry cokes (not on the shelves at the time) again so we stocked up.  We also needed respite sometimes from the cacophony.  Spencer is happily a sleepy little town and the festival with all its wonders and influx of new faces can sometimes be overwhelming.  I knew I could go home for a bowl of my mom's chili at anytime.  Even after I was in college she would make chili if she knew I was coming.

You see, the festival is a time of homecoming for those of us fortunate enough to make our way back. It's been almost ten years since my last Black Walnut Festival.  The Saturday parade, pancake breakfast, annual Nut Run, and rows of  other festival foods provide a social backdrop like no other.  There is no high school reunion that can come close to providing the smorgasbord of events and familiar lovely faces that can be seen during the festival. While eating a funnel cake, you might look up and see a friend who you have not seen in twenty years.  It is well worth the trip.  If you've never been I invite you to click on the link and soak some of it up for yourself.  Just seeing the picture of the carnival on the front page makes my heart soar.  

Lately, those of us who can't make it can now witness it on Facebook and other social media.  Which is exactly what I did yesterday dear ones, The Farmer sick with pneumonia, I was housebound, watching pictures of the parade go up as it was happening, and happily soaking up all the status updates of the events and goings on.  The best part?  Seeing pictures go up of friends who have not seen each other for a while, smiling, hugging, eyes shining with happiness.  Although it makes the heart a bit sad, what a joy to see those faces again.  And of course I thought of Leith's chili.

So this piece is dedicated to those of us, flung far and wide, who pine for the Black Walnut Festival each year.  I remember the smell of the leaves, their crunchiness under my quick steps, the vibrant colors, hearing the carnival music as I got closer to town.  Oh I couldn't wait the five minutes it took to get there!  And I remember Leith's chili,  especially the single small pot reserved just for me that didn't have the kidney beans in it, and I am reminded that my broken mama did the best she could to say "I love you", in all her brokenness.

More will be revealed...

And Here's Where We Left Off...

Summer in the Pacific Northwest takes its own sweet time arriving.  Generally, we understand that after July 4th we can expect what the rest of the country calls summer weather.  Temperatures reach  in the high eighties, the sun shines all day (rather than a slow burn off of grey till noon or later), and we have consecutive days without rain.  Disclaimer folks:   I LOVE Seattle weather.  After being raised in West Virginia and living there most of my life, I find cooler, less humid summers a relief, grey rainy days comforting and lovely, and  winters without snow, a special gift!  I miss thunderstorms, lightening and brilliant fall colors, but not the conditions necessary for nature to deliver them.

This summer surprised us a bit by coming three days earlier than usual.  In this neck of the woods that means that everyone ran out and purchased every available fan they could find, and that by nightfall there were none left in any store.  While this might be a slight stretch, it is closer to the truth.  Because of our moderate temperatures, less than 10% of the homes in Seattle have air conditioning.  Most people are so elated to see the sun that they don't know how to keep their houses cool.  Dear ones, growing up in West Virginia, in a house built by your great-grandfather, without air conditioning, teaches you a few things about staying cool.

So it was that I found myself prepping our home early one July morning waiting for our trio of children to return home.   On such a day, I find myself slipping into an archetyped, ritual behavior that brings me into sync with my grandmother, Frances.   My grandmother raised me and I watched her daily routine closely like any daughter watches a mother.  My own mother was so heavily medicated in those days that she would sleep very late, so it was my grandmother who made my breakfast and got my day going.  You could set your watch by her morning schedule.  I grew up with this informal education,  my grandmother's  customs inform my own domestic engineering today.

Frances would "close the house" around 10:00, pulling all the shades, closing all the doors and turning fans on every room to circulate the remaining cool air through the house.  God help the child (me) who left the door open too long in either the summer or the winter.  "Close the door you're letting the heat in!"  or "Close the door, you're letting all the heat out!"

My great-grandfather, when he built our home, went out to the surrounding woods and brought back a variety of flowers and foliage to surround the house.  It was grand in its day.  By the time I was living there, his agricultural efforts had truly taken root.  The yard was encircled by beautiful, old Maples, Black Walnut, and Elm trees. In the peak of the day, the front of the house was sheltered and shaded by these stately guardians, making the downstairs "front room" a place of respite on humid, unbearable afternoons.  This room was literally an extra room, so cold in the winter that my frugal grandmother chose not to heat it.   As a result, it became very well organized storage for all the things my grandmother could not part with but that were too threadbare to be in the rest of the house.  A huge red chair that was unbearably scratchy, an old radio that I played with as a child and transplanted to Huntington when I left,  and the old cookbooks belonging to both my grandmother and my great-grandmother.  The same ones  I poured over that eventually led me to this blog. (a food writer is born)  This room in the summer, was a haven, a highly coveted spot.  I'd often find my grandmother napping there and have to find other relief.  I felt so successful when I commandeered it for myself!  

My grandmother's quirks and routines so etched in memory, I often do things, wonder to Self  "How did I know how to do that" and Self in her knowing replies, "That's how Gram did it".  

That's how it went the day in Seattle when we were already approaching 70 degrees before ten-o'clock, a heat wave by our standards.  Our heat peaks in late afternoon or early evening so most folks leave their houses open all day and then wonder why it's so hot.  I felt absolutely in harmony with Frances as I shut windows, pulled down shades, drew the curtains...oh what a connection to her in those moments.  The Farmer teased me later about the new window dressings (cardboard in windows with the most sun exposure, I AM my grandmother's other daughter).  By the time the kiddos arrived, I was ready to say "Close the door, you're letting the heat in!"

And letting the aroma out....the aroma of the chicken I had roasted (I believe that's where we left off, a few bites back with Cara) Frances taught me well. Fix dinner early in the day and get that oven turned off before it gets too hot.  Or have a dinner from the garden of fresh tomatoes, corn on the cob, and green beans.  How good my grandmother was at never letting on that we had those dinners because we were frugal gourmets.  

Summer brings me back into time and place with Frances and creates a wellspring of gratitude in me for the bounty of gifts she left at my disposal.  As is always the case with mothers and ritual and memory,

more will be revealed...

Dinner With Cara....

There is always something to do. There are hungry people to feed, naked people to clothe, sick people to comfort and make well. And while I don't expect you to save the world I do think it's not asking too much for you to love those with whom you sleep, share the happiness of those whom you call friend, engage those among you who are visionary and remove from your life those who offer you depression, despair and disrespect.”

― Nikki Giovanni

This summer I have been experimenting with roast chicken.  I found it surprisingly easy to fix and a wonderful treat for The Farmer and I each week.  With fresh rosemary from our yard and delicious organic Washington raised chicken, I began to relish the routine of making our roast chicken and filling the kitchen with the aroma of rosemary and lemon.  Not only was it healthy, but the fat from the crispy skin was also comforting and essential to start the healing process for my troubled tummy.  It is impossible for me to refrain from nibbling between the time the chicken comes out (quality control!) and The Farmer gets home.  He often asks, jokingly," where do you purchase these wingless birds?".

This weekend was to be no exception to the rule.  I did my Sunday shopping and was excited about raising my culinary skills with the help of my friend (albeit imaginary) Alice Waters and her book  "The Art of Simple Food" which reads more like a lovely book than a recipe book, my favorite kind.  Alice suggests such wonderful things as putting garlic and rosemary under the skin of the chicken, and turning the chicken every 20 minutes.  My previous roasted chickens had been savory, but efficient.  This was to be a labor of love, executed first thing Monday morning so that The Farmer and I could have it for Monday's dinner, part of our weekly ritual.

Except...there was an exception.  Late Sunday night I received the sad and heavy news that a dear friend, Cara, had passed away.  In her early forties, the passing of this life came as a shock and a sorrow.  Although Cara and I grew up in the small town of Spencer, West Virginia I never actually met her or had any memory of her.  I met her two years ago on Facebook and ironically, it was there that we forged a deep friendship. We encountered each other first on a mutual friend's timeline and soon became fast friends. Although it was  in virtual time,  the connection never lacked substance.  We eventually enjoyed more private interactions via private message and phone (Cara:  "See, I don't have a West Virginia accent"   Me:  "oh Cara", as I try to stifle my giggles)

While Cara, and other Spencer friends were sitting down to dinner, I was in the midst of what is known as the "witching hour" to most mothers of young children still at home. That time between the fatigue of the day and the relief that bedtime brings. It can be a very lonely and frustrating time of day. I would post something about the children,  but generally what I was fixing for dinner, on Facebook.  For the next few hours I could count on a dialogue with Cara that was both a welcome diversion and a satisfying exchange of humor and ideas.   It was not unusual for a few cyber friends to join us and the silliness that would ensue was just as warm and welcoming as if we were all in the same room.

Cara would be finishing up her work day and as a fellow foodie loved swapping conversation about what was being cooked and eaten.  Her companionship came at a time that I was watching my marriage fall apart and having the connection with her each day made that loss more easy to bear.   As our friendship deepened we often talked about what we would do when I visited Spencer again.  We joked about pizza and beer, but I knew in my heart that I would want to make her a good meal, the kind that would nurture her spirit and her belly.

This morning my heart weighs heavy with the thought that we will never have that meal. We had so many virtual dinners, though, settling in on our couches through Winter's drear, accompanied by our fellow introverts.  It will be a while before I am able, in the rainy blanket of mid-winter Seattle, to make my standard "Comfy pants, STAT!" status update.  It was a joy we both shared, donning our elastic waist pants and sitting down to "chat" each evening.  She was always the first to respond to that update.

In the shroud of that heaviness I remember that I have a family to feed today.   I am sloth with grief and shock.  How can I?   I do not know how I can possibly peel the garlic that Alice recommends, deal with the task of doing this thing that I know will soothe my spirit, but also open up my grieving.   Yes, it will open up my grieving and it will also be a gift to Cara, that meal I will not get to make for her.

I force myself out the door and into the brightness of the day.  It is too bright.  Too loud.  But it is where the rosemary is and I need it to do justice to the memory of my friend.  I pray that none of my neighbors comes out and asks me how I am, because I know I will weep if they do.  Thankfully I go unnoticed (Cara would appreciate this sentiment I know).  In the solitude of my little kitchen, (with Ruby Gloom occupying This Boy and That Girl) I get to the business of soul soothing.

I peel the garlic that The Farmer grew in our garden.  It is succulent and the aromas open up my senses while sadness washes over me.  I invite my friend Alice Waters into the kitchen for companionship, guidance and clarity. The instructions seem hard to read, but I know this is the weight of grief.  The task of peeling the garlic seems too much, but not for a good friend.  Per Alice's instructions I slice it thickly and put it under the skin of the  chicken.  The rosemary follows, and then an abundance of pure olive oil, kosher salt, and fresh ground pepper.  It IS that labor of love and when I am done my heartache is palpable and raw.  Yet, I feel that I have done something worthwhile in the memory of my friend.

That Girl comes into the kitchen as I am about to put the chicken in the oven.  It is adorned with the rosemary and the smells have filled up our small kitchen.  "Mama, it's beautiful!" she exclaims.  "Will you teach me how to do that when I am older?" she inquires.  I well up...choke back some tears, nodding "Of course sweet pea".  The moment, the precious moment.  It is all we ever have and for that time it is full of grace, bittersweet and still brimming with possibility.

I flee to the bathroom for a tissue, to escape, to be unseen.  The smell of rosemary, lemon, and garlic waft after me, pursue me,  find me and it is then that I begin to really cry.  Those smells so comforting, so warm, such a comfort. This is the life that grief takes...it redefines simple pleasures, simple food,  simple rituals like "Comfy pants, STAT!" .. it has its own life, its own plan and knocks us off our feet when we have our guard down.  

It is then that the gravity of what I have done, becomes sheer and bright to me. I shall, from this time forward always pair those smells, this ritual,  this simple task, with the memory of my beloved friend Cara, and the dinner we never got to share.  Godspeed Cara.

More will be revealed.....